


press on me, we are restless things

by fruitwhirl



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, in a relatively inappropriate location, jake and amy just trying to do the baby dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 17:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16224056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitwhirl/pseuds/fruitwhirl
Summary: Ostensibly, they knew it would take some time for them to conceive. Amy’s almost thirty-six, and they both have tremendously stressful jobs. And she also needed a month or two for her body to adjust to the whole “no birth control” thing. But still, it shouldn’t have been this hard. She’s still a Santiago, for Pete's sake; her mother had kids until her early forties, and only stopped because eight children takes a toll on a woman’s body.And so maybe, just maybe, Amy went a little psycho with the conception binder.





	press on me, we are restless things

**Author's Note:**

> this literally just comes from me binging parenthood, falling in love with joel and julia, and realizing that they are literally jake and amy with a baby girl. i don't think the science behind amy's reasoning (well, technically julia's) is necessarily sound, but homegirl is desperate. 
> 
> title from jnew's "only skin"

Amy didn’t _mean_ for this to happen.

Neither of them did.

She guesses that it _really_ started seven months ago, when she and Jake had “the talk,” and she threw away her birth control.

(It wasn’t really a talk, though—they’ve always been clear about _wanting_ kids, eventually. But, earlier, Sharon had visited the precinct with baby Ava and the twins and the way Jake’s eyes softened, well, _shit_. It hit her hard. So when she came home, and he was sitting at the kitchen table—having gotten off work two hours before her—just idly playing on his phone, and she barely had the cognitive energy to take off her shoes before striding over and straddling him on their rickety wood chair.

She pressed sharp kisses to his jaw, his neck, and she was just getting started on his collarbone when he pulled back, just a breath, to ask, “Why?”

Amy inhaled something quick, before resting her forehead against his. “I want a baby.”

And then she kisses him, and she can _feel_ his wide, wide smile against her lips and his whisper of “Yeah, me too.”)

Ostensibly, they knew it would take some time for them to conceive. Amy’s almost thirty-six, and they both have tremendously stressful jobs. And she also needed a month or two for her body to adjust to the whole “no birth control” thing. But still, it shouldn’t have been _this_ hard. She’s still a Santiago, for fuck’s sake; her mother had kids until her early forties, and only stopped because eight children takes a toll on a woman’s body.

And so _maybe,_ just maybe, Amy went a little psycho with the conception binder.

It’s just in her nature to keep a detailed log of their sexual activity, her ovulation schedule, and even their water intake—it’s gotten to the point that even her husband is willing to drink four cups of water every day. They’ve mainly been having sex at night and have made sure that Amy’s on her back for most of it, or at least afterwards. Hell, they’ve even incorporated _yams_ into their diets.

And _now,_ they’ve taken the step that has pained Jake (and honestly, it’s kind of sucked for her too) the most: they’ve stopped having sex within forty-eight hours of her ovulation. She’s not _entirely_ sure of the science behind it—neither are most pregnancy blogs, who, frankly, mostly suggest old wives’ tales—but her Aunt Josephine swore by it, and so, there she was.

Having to physically pull his head up from underneath the covers, because while she very much enjoys oral, she knew what it would lead to.

And after one orgasm, she wouldn’t have been able to stop him from convincing her.

They still had at least thirty-two hours before ovulation started.

It was hard.

But they succeeded in keeping their hands off of each other (don’t mind the fact that she’s been carrying ovulation predictor kits in her purse since t-minus twenty-nine hours) for the entire two days, (aside from perhaps the _brief_ few minutes where she walked into the kitchen wearing jeans that hug her hips a little _too well)_. What they didn’t consider, however, is where they would be when the time was up.

The location in question?

Nikolaj’s seventh birthday party, currently being hosted at the Jeffords’ house (since the Boyle-Mirren-Carter apartment is too small).

She should have waited to take the ovulation test.

She should have waited.

But she didn’t wait.

Nikolaj and his friends were in the middle of watching _Amazing Andy and His Wonderful World of Bugs,_ and so all of the adults were busy trying to make sure that their child didn’t knock over a jar of cockroaches (really, Amy has no idea how Charles convinced Terry to let him have the party there).

So, no one was paying attention to her or her husband.

So, when Amazing Andy pulled out his collection of bush crickets, and the entire audience was _riveted,_ Jake slipped his hand into hers, then as quietly as he could, led her upstairs, since he knows the layout of the place better.

So, they ended up in the bathroom.

God, she’s glad she wore a dress to this function, because the moment the door closes, he pushes her against the white wood, mouth dropping to that little, sensitive spot right underneath her jaw, palms slipping down underneath her skirt, cup her upper thigh.

In between short, sharp breaths, he nips at the crook of her shoulder—thank _God_ for off-the-shoulder necklines—and he’s got his right hand attempting to undo the buttons in the back, but she stops him, raising her palms up to cup his cheek, kiss him slow, languid.

“No time,” she mutters against his lips, and she thinks he gets the hint, because his hands go south.

His pants are down, and she’s up on edge of the sink, his hands on her ass and hers gripping onto his back, and she’s so, _so_ close.

That’s when the door opens.

_“Oh my God.”_

“Oh my God.”

“Oh my _God_.”

“Genevieve, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m leaving— _I’m leaving_.”

“Oh my God.”

“I didn’t mean to come in like this, wait I didn’t—”

_“Genevieve.”_

And then the door shuts, and Amy exhales something deep that she didn’t realized she was holding in. Jake is looking up at her, with wide eyes, blown pupils, and his face beet red (she’s sure that her cheeks are a darker shade of burgundy, if that’s possible).

“We should stop,” she mutters.

His mouth goes to her collarbone again. “I mean, she already saw us.” She can’t hold back the bite of laughter, and feels his grin. “We might as well finish what we started.”

Unable to stop herself, she guffaws loudly, letting her head fall forward to rest on top of his, presses her lips against his hairline. “Shit.” A breath. “Genevieve’s gonna tell Boyle. We’ll never hear the end of this if our child is conceived on Nikolaj’s birthday.”

Jake sighs something soft, almost a chuckle, and underneath her skirt, he rubs his thumb against the skin of her hip. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Boyle somehow orchestrated this entire situation.”

She pulls back.

“Please don’t suggest that.”

“Sorry, it just _came_ to mind.”

_“Oh my God.”_

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think, and if you enjoyed!


End file.
